I wasn't in love with him. I was sorry for him. I
knew he'd go to pieces if I wasn't there to keep him together. Perhaps
it's the maternal instinct."
"Perhaps," I said. Lena's reasons for her behaviour amused me; they
were never exquisite, like Frances's, but she was anxious that you
should think they were.
"So you see," she said, "they don't count, and Norry really _is_ the
first."
I reflected that he would be also, probably, the last. She had, no
doubt, to make the most of him. But it was preposterous that she should
waste so much good passion; preposterous that she should imagine for
one moment she could keep the fellow. I had to warn her.
"Of course, if you care to take the risk of him--" I said. "He won't
stick to you, Lena."
"Why shouldn't he?"
I couldn't tell her. I couldn't say, "Because you're thirteen ears
older than he is." That would have been cruel. And it would have been
absurd, too, when she could so easily look not a year older than his
desiccated thirty-four.
It only took a little success like this, her actual triumph in securing
him.
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